


March 14th

by CherryMilkshake



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, despite being about the making of dessert, it's actually sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/pseuds/CherryMilkshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's almost Jane's birthday and that means this game is lasting way too long. Good thing her kitchen still works and pie is the best medicine for sadness. Isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	March 14th

Jane turned on the oven, half-surprised that it still worked detached from all the pipes and whatever else connected the stove to the electricity, gas and plumbing. She was too tired to think on it much though, chalking it up to game logic and shenanigans. The familiar weight and heft of her bowls and ingredients was a comfort as she settled them on the counter, pulling things out of cabinets and pantries on almost-blissful autopilot.

Flour, butter, salt, sugar, water. Her trusty mixer, gleaming red despite the years of use.

As she made the dough, years of practice eliminating the need for real measurements, she let her thoughts fade away, putting them into the dough under her hands, as she kneaded and rolled it, sometimes more aggressively than necessary. She ignored the tears that dripped occasionally off her nose and onto the counter—just an extra ingredient.

She wrapped the dough in plastic and put it in the fridge to chill, turning to the filling.

Not apple.

The tears fell hot and fast. Evenings curled up on the couch with Dad, two plates of steaming apple cinnamon pie before them, laughing at something on TV, even if they’d seen it many times before.

She left the apples in their basket on the counter, deciding instead on something else.

Lemons, sugar, butter, eggs, salt. She retrieved a saucepan from the cabinet beside the stove.

Zesting and juicing the lemons was mindless and relaxing, the smell making her think of freshly cleaned kitchens and summers of lemonade. The eggs were separated, the whites, thick and slimy, dripped into the bowl under her fingers, yolks bobbing slightly in the shells. Once on the stove, the filling required constant attention, and let her forget for a little while how empty her kitchen was, how she kept half-expecting heavy footfalls behind her, a kiss on the crown of her head, and a murmured, “That smells delicious, sweetie, I’m so proud of you.”

The dough was removed, and she rolled it out, settling it gently into the pie tin. She slid it into the oven, and turned back to the counter. The filling was moved off the heat, waiting patiently for its bed.

The egg whites from before, more sugar, a pinch of cream of tartar. Trusty mixer with its trusty whisk.

She watched the clear goop turn frosty white, sticking a finger in to taste every so often, adding more sugar as needed.

The oven beeped, the crust half-finished and ready for the filling and top. Her oven mitt was a penguin, a gift on her 8th birthday.

Summer yellow lemon curd was poured into the waiting tin, topped with snow white meringue, which was carefully swept into peaks and valleys.

Back in the oven. Jane set the timer and stepped back, staring at the oven as if it might spontaneously talk to her, reassure her that everything was fine, that this was just a crazy dream.

It only felt like it was lasting for months.

It only felt like it was almost her birthday and her father was still missing.

She fought back the lump in her throat as she washed the dishes; her dad’s voice stern in her mind, “A good chef always keeps her kitchen clean.”

The oven beeped as she put the last bowl away. With practiced hands, she removed the pie and set it on the counter, staring at the golden-brown tips of the meringue, smelling that warm, lemony smell.

Out of habit, Jane grabbed the pie wedge and the dessert plates, cutting two thick slices. “Dad!” she called out. “The pie’s… …done…”

\--

Roxy ate the pie. Jane couldn’t stomach one bite.


End file.
